The Alan Sondheim Mail Archive


i can't believe where it's gotten me again. this exile, this denudation,
this exhaustion which seeps through me like the Caucasus. burned, i would
do no less than refuse the laws of gravity, gravitas, hopeful instead that
one might finally fly elsewhere, elsewhen.
whatever the case was, it wasn't mine. there was an explosive within,
expulsion of air, breath gone awry. this was remonstrance
  imminent: nothing
lasts where the only sense of origin is rooted in the body, your body,
inherent in it, inhering. place it in the mouth or eyes, place it in the
cunt. you can't leave without magic, there are no signposts, nothing,
nowhere to go. not when you're a planet yourself, among self and selves.
honor the dead is no honor at all, you are in the breathless realm, beings
depend on you.

you have to follow the realm of the dead, travel beneath the surface,
hurtle into the skysphere, which more often than not may reject you, try
and again until you're there. what is flat back recreates your Origin
within you; fecundity has no presence. see how poor these video remnants
are; travel yourself with yourself, your Origin, and see exactly that,
process and operators, self-generations, completions and then some
To access the Odyssey exhibition The Accidental Artist:

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